Sick Days
by thewbas
Summary: Sherlock essentially reverts back to childhood when he falls ill after a tough case, forcing John to access his long-forgotten soft side and take care of his flatmate.


Chilly, grey countryside whizzed by in a blur as John focused his gaze on the tiny flecks of drizzle on the window of the cab. He and Sherlock were sitting side by side, with a familiar silence situated comfortably between them. They were returning from a case that had kept them busy through the morning, and early afternoon hadn't brought any reprieve from the icy winter weather.

John was hungry. They'd skipped breakfast and worked through lunch, and he was now dreaming of curry and chips and freshly-baked biscuits and a cup of tea and-

He had half a mind to pull out his phone, call for takeaway, and have the cab driver make an extra stop on the way back to the flat.

However, all thoughts of food were rather abruptly evicted from his mind by the sound of retching and a sudden blast of cold air. John whipped his head around to find his companion hung out the window of the cab, the musculature of his back rippling as he heaved.

"Sherlock?"

No response. John leaned back into the car seat, catching the disapproving glare of the cab driver in the rear view mirror. "Sorry about him," John offered tentatively. "He's fine."

John leaned forward again, trying to peek around the dark figure of Sherlock's overcoat to catch a glimpse of his face. "Right, Sherlock? You're fine?"

Sherlock nodded, but made no move to bring his head back into the car. It was getting unbearably cold inside the cab, and the glances from the driver were becoming more and more hostile. Finally, with a great roll of his eyes, John pulled out his wallet. "We'll just hop off here, then," he announced, to the driver's very obvious relief.

John wasn't thrilled about the idea of getting out into the cold and the rain, but he wanted to get a good lock at Sherlock and figure out what was going on. They were not far from their flat, and John also knew that there was a drugstore around the corner. They'd be fine.

Sherlock stumbled out of the car, still coughing and spluttering, and John came around to stand in front of his friend. "Sherlock, what's this about?"

Sherlock wiped his mouth on the back of his gloved hand, to John's chagrin. "I've eaten something unsavory."

"But you didn't eat today. Neither of us did."

Sherlock shrugged, clearly struggling to maintain his air of nonchalance. "Well maybe that's the problem, then."

John rolled his eyes again. He had caught himself doing that increasingly often since moving in with his certifiably insane flatmate. "Ok, then why don't we stop for some takeaway? I was dreaming of curry in the car."

Sherlock emitted a curious noise that seemed half-groan, half-retch, and immediately doubled over. He was only dry-heaving at this point, but it was still a sorry sight. John waited until he'd finished gagging, then threw his arm around his friend and drove him out of the sleet and into the shelter of a storefront awning. "I didn't think you'd take kindly to the mention of curry. I think you're ill."

Sherlock slid dramatically down the wall into a seated position on the ground. "Maybe so, your excellence Doctor Watson."

John fought the urge to roll his eyes for the third time in ten minutes, and instead began to shimmy out of his overcoat. "Here," he muttered, holding it out to his pathetic-looking friend. "Trade me." His coat was mildly damp, but it was certainly in better condition than Sherlock's was, having been hung out the window of the cab for the majority of their rainy drive.

Sherlock avoided eye contact as he took off his own coat and handed it over. John chuckled as he fought to squeeze into Sherlock's coat; meanwhile, Sherlock had all but made a tent out of John's.

"Now," John directed, ceding his struggle to button the coat in favor of hugging his arms across his chest to retain whatever warmth he could. "Why don't you come with me to the shop and sit on a bench out of the cold while I pick up a few things." Medicine, namely. And electrolyte drinks. And soup. And a heating pad.

John had to admit he felt bad for Sherlock. The poor detective had been working overtime lately, even for him. Long nights and cold days were enough to take their toll on anyone, but Sherlock didn't know how to take care of himself even on a good day.

"Let's go," John prodded. "Sooner you get off the ground, the sooner you'll be in your own bed."

Sherlock moaned, struggled to his feet, and spat on the sidewalk—a display of humanity that was very uncharacteristic of someone who would deny the fact that he partakes in any sort of bodily function whatsoever.

"That's right," John encouraged. "Just think of your bed, waiting for you just minutes away. You'll be fine."

-scene break-

Sherlock didn't even make it as far as his bed. Upon entering the flat, he made a beeline for the kitchen sink and threw up what little bit of water John had bought for him at the shop (and then forced him to consume against his will).

"I told you," Sherlock said between heaves, "that I didn't want anything to drink."

John shook his head and helped Sherlock out of his coat. "You have to drink. Even if you throw it back up, you have to try."

"I won't," Sherlock argued, kicking his shoes off in the middle of the kitchen and immediately tripping over them. John trailed behind him, picking up first his shoes, then his socks and his jumper. John assumed that Sherlock was headed for his bedroom, but Sherlock unexpectedly veered off course and collapsed into a heap on the couch, leaving John standing there with his arms full of Sherlock's discarded clothing.

"Why don't I…" John began, but trailed off as he realized Sherlock was already asleep. "Why don't I hang up these wet clothes and get you something warmer to put on," John finished under his breath, followed by a few other choice words directed at his childish, pitiful companion.

John went ahead and hung up his and Sherlock's wet clothing by the heater, and then dug through Sherlock's chest of drawers until he found an old jumper and a pair of woolen socks. He brought them into the living room, knelt down beside the couch, and began to dress his friend, relieved that Sherlock had fallen asleep before removing his trousers as well.

Once John was satisfied with the condition of his friend, he placed a rubbish bin on the floor beside the couch and headed off to draw a nice hot bath. As he eased himself into the water, every muscle and joint protested, as though his body were punishing him for subjecting it to all those hours of standing around in the winter weather that morning. It was no wonder Sherlock's had given out on him after all that.

When John returned to the living room, dressed in pyjamas and wrapped in a blanket, he was greeted by the sight of Sherlock hanging off the couch with his head in the bin that John had had the forethought to leave for him.

"Shhh," he cooed, rubbing tiny circles into Sherlock's back. "Try to breathe."

Sherlock took an audible inhalation, but it caught in his throat and ended with another series of dry heaves. "It hurts," he squeaked.

John was surprised by the magnitude of pity he felt for his friend. As a physician, he had seen worse than this, and had learned to block it out most of the time. Generally speaking, pity was a useless emotion that just got in the way of duty. But to see Sherlock, the fearless detective, curled up with his hair matted to his forehead and his eyes squeezed shut against tears struck a long-forgotten chord in John's heart.

John shrugged his blanket off his shoulders, draping it over Sherlock's shivering form before heading into the kitchen and putting the kettle on. He soon returned, a cup of tea in one hand and a glass of water for Sherlock in the other, but Sherlock was already fast asleep once more.

Maybe that was all he needed—a good night's rest. John sipped his tea and pulled his phone out of his pocket. Maybe Sherlock would be right as rain with a little bit of sleep, but John knew what he himself needed: that curry that still hadn't left his thoughts since the car ride.

John answered the door like a child on Christmas when his food arrived, and he snuck it into his room so as not to upset Sherlock's stomach with the warm, spicy scent. He curled up under his covers, cracked open a good book, and dug in.

-scene break-

John awoke the next morning with a start, disoriented and tangled in his blankets. An empty takeaway container sat on his bedside table, and a book had imprinted itself into his flank where he'd apparently fallen asleep on it.

As John wrestled himself out of bed, an unfamiliar and unsettled feeling sank into the pit of his stomach, and he remembered the events of the day before—who knew whether Sherlock was still suffering on the couch where John had left him?

John didn't have time to go check on his flatmate, though; in a matter of seconds the nebulous feeling in his stomach morphed into a full-on wave of nausea, propelling him into the bathroom with a slam of the door.

As John knelt by the toilet, he was so busy wishing he were dead that he didn't even hear the bathroom door creak open and Sherlock's sock-clad feet pad across the floor. He didn't notice his flatmate's presence until icy fingers flitted tentatively across the back of his neck, nearly causing him to jump through the ceiling. "What the hell?" John shouted.

"Good morning," came the reply.

His voice still sounded raw and exhausted, but when John spun around to face his friend, he could clearly see that the worst of the sickness had passed and Sherlock was on the mend. "Good morning, Sherlock. Glad to see you looking better."

"I wish I could say the same about you," Sherlock rasped. "But I tried to tell you curry was a bad idea."


End file.
